The world would be so simple if everyone was only one thing.
The world would be so simple, small, and sad.
From that list, Xena is only one out of three. Petite by the walrus standards of Tabby’s Place, she is a pewter seal of approval. She will slide down the ramp, laughing love in your personal direction.
She holds her own among mega-mammals like Maurice. She does not need to know you well to know that you shine brighter than the iridescent squid at the bottom of the sea.
She loves early and often.
She cannot be simple, and she is too busy to be sad.
“Why is Xena still here?” cry the old sailors. We cannot see why potential adopters have all beached upon the shore of “someone else.” There is no justification for Xenaphobia. We do not understand why our silver selkie must wait.
There is so much we do not understand.
Xena, being a cat, does not feel the need to seize understanding by force. Why should she add salt to the world with misbegotten tears? She lives in a tidepool called Tabby’s Place, where every peculiar plankton and squirmy sea cucumber is adored.
(Xena, being gracious, does not feel the need to observe that plankton enjoy deeper thoughts than Maurice does.)
She is happy. Most living things would search the seven seas to claim the same.
Some say that Xena still waits because Xena has medical challenges. People say her skin allergies get adopters twitchy. People say that people, being people, want a cat who is fully assembled out of the box, batteries not required, prescription diet not required.
People say a lot of things, but then other people come along and blow all the cynics out of the water. Carrot and Elijah and Olympia get adopted.
Xena’s needs do not spell “no.”
She is waiting, but she is not waiting.
“Why is Xena still here?” we whine to each other, missing the fact that Xena has no time to whine. She glitters with patience and hands out benefits of the doubt like lollipops, so she will never look down on our laments.
But she maintains a crackling schedule of living all nine lives simultaneously, so she cannot join us in that deep end.
Xena is a cat, the color of the foil you shaped into a swan after finishing your peanut butter and jelly. Her default expression is amusement, and her eyes start laughing five minutes before the punch line.
She has not lost her breathless kittenhood, but she is certified in guided meditation and can become your waterwings when anxiety tugs you like an undertow.
Xena is a cat, the color of most coins. She knows her worth, which insures her against worry. She does not understand the word “adoption.” She does not understand that grey is considered a neutral color, fit for distressed wood flooring and sedate sedans. Xena lives a minimum of three great greys a day.
She is grey like Gandalf, the wizard who believes small people can save the world. She is tickled that “The Grey Lady” refers both to herself and to The New York Times. She is grey like the bird who does not understand the difference between pigeons and doves, or love and peace.
She is grey and technicolor, waiting and satisfied.
She is infatuated with the in-between place where we all live, even after we are adopted.
“When will Xena get adopted?” We are sad because we are impatient with the grey.
Were I a gamblin’ woman, my name would be Zenobia Applejack, I would wear a rhinestone fedora, and I would bet that Xena’s AwesomeAdopter will arrive before 2025.
But none of us knows what lies over the next wave.
We are small and complicated, which puts is in the company of grey grandeur. We may be adopted or admired tomorrow, or we may not. We may yet hold the prize, or we may just find a paw that fits in ours.
We are allowed to be happy here and today. Xena will not understand if we miss that opportunity.